Behind the Plate (The Boys of Baseball #2) - J. Sterling Page 0,104

away, trying to regain her composure.

“Good answer,” she turned to face me, her voice cracking as a single tear fell.

“Don’t cry.” I wiped away the lone tear from her cheek, and she closed her eyes the second my hand touched her skin.

“I’m not.” She breathed in and out a few more times, her eyes still closed, and I wondered what kind of pep talk she was giving herself and not sharing with me. “I don’t want us to end,” she admitted before adjusting her position and scooting up straighter, her long, dark hair spilling all around her shoulders.

“I don’t either.”

“It shouldn’t be this hard to stay together.”

“I know,” I agreed because it seemed really fucking unfair. Instead of focusing on that, I nudged her back on topic. “You said you wanted all the facts before you decided. So, what do you want to know?”

“Everything.” She shrugged.

I nodded and let out a short chuckle. “Okay. It might be easier if you asked questions.”

“I’m not really sure what to ask. I mean, you’re the one who’s so convinced we can’t stay together. Why don’t you tell me why?”

Damn. She’d put me on the spot, and I deserved it.

“It’s like I said that one night at dinner. My entire life will revolve around the game. We basically play nine months out of the year. Longer, if we make it into the playoffs. And pitchers and catchers report before everyone else for spring training. Baseball will be my priority. It’ll be my job. I’ll have three to four days off a month. A month, Danika. And sometimes, we’ll spend that day traveling, so it’s not really a day off at all.”

Her mouth had fallen open by this point, and she looked at me like everything I had said sounded crazy. “When does the season start?”

“For me, in February.”

“Right, ’cause you’re a catcher. And you report first,” she said, repeating facts back to me and storing them in her head for later, I assumed. “And when does it end?”

“October, depending on playoffs.”

I watched as she counted the months on her fingers, stopping at nine, just like I’d said. “What happens between October and February? You have all those months off to do whatever you want?”

“Technically, yes. It’s called the off-season. But I still have to stay in shape and work out and hit during that time. My head will still be in baseball mode even though I’m not playing.”

She swallowed. “But you can go on vacation during those months? And you would be around for Thanksgiving and Christmas?”

“Vacations, yes. And I would be around for those holidays. New Year’s too. But that’s it. I’d miss the rest. Your birthday. Our anniversary. Any celebrations with friends.”

“And what about when you travel during the season? How many games are away?”

“Anywhere from ten to seventeen usually.”

“So, almost half the month.” She sounded sad, and it killed me. But she needed to know the reality of what I was signing up for.

“Yeah.”

“What else?” she said point-blank. “What else is there? Groupies? Girls hitting on you?”

“Always. But you’d never have to worry about that,” I tried to reassure her, knowing that I was not the kind of guy to fuck around, and that wasn’t changing anytime soon.

I’d learned a lot from my parents’ relationship, and that was one thing I never wanted to go through. They had told me how devastating it was, from both of their perspectives, and it had always stuck with me.

She smiled, and it lit up the whole fucking truck. “I don’t even worry about that now, and I probably should.”

I reached out and touched her hand. “No, you shouldn’t. After everything my parents went through, I’d never put you through that.”

Her face pulled together in confusion. “Your dad cheated on your mom?”

I nodded. “It’s a long story.”

“I would have never guessed that. Not ever. They’re so in love.”

“I know. They recovered nicely,” I said with a grin.

“They did. Okay, so one, you’ll never be home.” She put up a single finger before adding another. “Two, you’ll miss a bunch of shit. And three, girls will hit on you constantly. What else am I missing?”

“This is serious, Danika. You can list things off like they’re not a big deal, but when it’s your life every single day, it’s not the same. Shit gets old. Your life will revolve around my schedule. You’ll get sick of it. Me always being gone. And if I have a bad game or I’m in a hitting slump, I might be